Who Am I?
by Mele
Summary: An brain injured Blair seeks his Blessed Proctor in the wake of an unfortunate encounter
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer:** All things "Sentinel" belong to Pet Fly, I'm just having some fun with them_

 _ **Notes/Timeline/Spoilers:** Set during the first season, after 'Vow of Silence'. Spoilers for most Season One episodes; specifically Cypher and Siege._

 ** _Notes June 2015:_** _This was the very first Sentinel story I ever wrote. :) Be kind._

 **Who Am I?**

By Mele

"Jim is so going to kill me, man," Blair moaned to himself as his Corvair coughed and sputtered its last, rolling to an anticlimactic stop in a deserted parking lot. Blair had nosed the car into the lot when he realized the noises coming from the engine compartment were not the usual discordant symphony, but the onset of a terminal breakdown.

He looked around dispiritedly; there were no businesses open in this area anymore, and the odds of someone just passing by were remote at best. He had been doing deliveries for another professor, his payback for the man having taken his place teaching a few times when police/sentinel duties had called Blair away. After the last drop-off Blair had made the mistake of asking directions for the shortest route back to Rainer, knowing he needed to get finished quickly if he was to make it in time to pick up pizza for them to enjoy during the Jags game.

It had been a hectic week, and a quiet night of pizza and basketball had been the 'carrot and stick' incentive to get them though the day, and Jim was NOT going to be happy if Blair didn't hold up his end of the bargain.

"Thank God for cell phones," Blair muttered, grabbing his bulging backpack. He reached for his cell phone, only to find a cavity where the phone was supposed to be. "Oh, shit," the anthropologist sighed, looking around more desperately now that help was not just the punch of a button away.

Sighing in frustration, he finally got out of the car, locking it carefully before walking to the sidewalk to survey his options. He knew if he backtracked it was at least a dozen large blocks until he'd find any payphones or open businesses. Going forward was a gamble, since he wasn't familiar with this area, and, at 4:45 pm in the winter, he had at best a half hour of weak light.

"Well, this is another fine mess you've gotten yourself into," he muttered under his breath, mentally flipping a coin before deciding to backtrack. "The devil you know is better than the devil you don't know," he misquoted to himself as he set out at a brisk walk.

His hurried pace was partially due to the need to get home fairly soon, and partly because it was damned cold, especially this close to the waterfront. The realization of exactly where he was suddenly hit, bringing with it unwelcome memories of the last time he'd been near the waterfront district.

An abandoned warehouse.

Muted light through broken windows.

David Lash.

"Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, don't think about that," he counseled himself, picking up the pace a little more. But it seemed that once the association was made, his brain insisted on filling out the whole picture. Lash putting on that wig, keeping up a running commentary: **I can be you.**

**I can be you.**

And a small corner of Blair's mind anxiously yammering **if he becomes me, then who am I?** The answer, of course, was 'nobody'. That was Lash's specialty, after all; assume the persona, and leave the empty shell of the original 'owner' behind. Thank God Jim had shown up when he did, and thank God Jim had carried a second gun, and thank God David Lash could not come back and finish the job.

Except in his dreams.

The first dream hit the second night he was home, his cry of terror bringing Jim down to his room so fast the older man was lucky he didn't end up falling down the stairs. If Blair hadn't been so distraught, he probably would have enjoyed the spectacle of his normally cool roommate's panicked arrival. The dreams continued, slowly decreasing in frequency, until they all but disappeared. But even now certain things could trigger a flashback or a dream: sitting in a dentist's chair, seeing someone wearing a yellow neck scarf, the smell of the waterfront.

At least fear lent additional speed to Blair's pace; he couldn't get away from there fast enough. So intent on fleeing the demons of his memory was he that he didn't notice the two men in the alleyway he was passing until the sound of a single gunshot drew his attention. He stopped, looking over to where one man stood over the crumpled figure of another, a motorcycle idling nearby.

The killer looked up to see Blair rooted to the spot, then leapt on the cycle, aiming right for the startled anthropologist. The police observer belatedly realized that he was alone, unarmed, and standing like the world's dumbest target while a newly-minted killer bore down on him with a mean-looking bike.

Running desperately down the sidewalk, the roar of the motorcycle filling his mind, Blair ducked into the first doorway he found, praying it would be unlocked. His prayers weren't answered. The knob remained stubbornly still as the young guide risked a glance over his shoulder ... directly into the barrel of a gun pointed at him from a few feet away. He didn't even have time to be afraid as the blast of a gunshot, and a blindingly bright flare of agony, sent him spiraling into darkness.

TSTS*TSTS

"I'm going to kill him," Jim mumbled, glancing at the front door as if he could will his roommate to appear. It was a fruitless gesture, since he knew full well Blair was not anywhere near. If he were, Jim would have heard his heartbeat, that steady cadence that helped focus and anchor the sentinel.

"Well, as long as you get the pizza from him first, I'll turn a blind eye to it," Simon grinned, enjoying baiting his best detective.

"I'm sorry, Simon; I should have gotten the pizza myself. The kid probably got invited to some function at the university and forgot all about our plans. I'll go ahead and call in an order," Jim said, reaching for the phone.

"You ever try Louis's? They have a meat-eaters' special that is to die for. And they deliver," the captain suggested with a gleam in his eye.

"You know, that sounds perfect. And if Sandburg shows up ... well ... too bad," Jim agreed. A few minutes later the two men settled down to await their dinner and enjoy the game, unencumbered by worries about the wayward police observer.

TSTS*TSTS

"Oh, man, my head is killing me," Blair groaned as he carefully sat up, fighting the nausea that activity produced. The young man tentatively put his hand up to his forehead wincing at the tenderness and absently noting the sticky feel of partially dried blood. He rested with his back against a convenient wall until the world steadied a little, then staggered to his feet, holding on to the building for support.

His dazed eyes swept the area, finding nothing familiar, so he started unsteadily up the street, toward the lights he could see in the distance, away from the darkness and damp stench of the waterfront behind him.

Reaching the business district at long last, the anthropologist wandered along the lighted street until he found a 24-hour gas station, where he used the bathroom facilities to clean off his throbbing head wound.

"Must have fallen pretty badly," he muttered, checking out the nasty gash that marred the left side of his forehead. The cut was deep and irregular, and the entire area around it was swollen, discolored, and painful. He stared at his reflection, realizing with a sudden chill that he didn't recognize the face staring back at him; in fact, he couldn't remember who he was or where he was from or even where he was now. Suddenly frightened, he hurried into the gas station and up to the bored attendant.

"Where is this?" he asked, looking around for anything that might be familiar. "Where am I?"

The young man looked at the obviously confused customer in front of him, taking in his soiled, disheveled appearance, and concluded the curly-haired fellow was coming off some sort of bad drug experience.

"You're not in Kansas anymore, man. You wanna act like a head case, take it out of here before I call the cops and have you hauled off," he growled, pointing toward the door.

"But, where am I? What city? Have you ever seen me before?"

"No, I haven't, and I don't want to again, understand? Get out of here." The attendant stood, turning out to be much bigger than Blair had first thought. In the face of the blatant threat, the police observer decided the best course of action would be to find someplace else to ask his questions.

"No problem, man, no problem," he muttered, making his unsteady way to the door. **If this pain in my head would just let up, maybe I could remember.**

A block further he found a large bench, onto which he sank gratefully; the pounding headache made walking an ordeal. He'd almost nodded off when the city bus pulled up and the doors opened, revealing a large, dark driver with impatient eyes set in an oddly jovial face.

"You waiting for a bus, buddy? If not, you need to move on," he asked brusquely.

Blair considered the rumbling bus, then with a shrug boarded, reaching into his pocket and pulling out what he found there. Unsure what was needed, he held his handful of bills and coins out to the driver.

"Take what you need, man," he said quietly.

The driver looked at the slight, swaying figure, taking in the raw looking head injury above dazed, guileless eyes, and any thoughts he might have had of taking advantage of this passenger fled.

"You don't mind me saying so, buddy, looks like you should stop by the hospital," he commented, taking out the proper fare.

"I don't like hospitals," Blair murmured, unsure where that notion came from but utterly certain it was true.

"I guess I can understand that. Go take a seat."

Blair found a vacant seat and leaned against the window, listlessly watching the passing scenery, vaguely hoping to see something familiar. He was nearly asleep when a distant building caught his eye, compelling him to step forward to be let off.

"You want off here, buddy?" the driver asked incredulously. "You sure? There ain't much around this part of Cascade."

Blair just nodded, still glancing out the window frequently as if he expected the view to change. The driver brought the bus to a stop and opened the doors with an odd reluctance.

"Good luck to you, then," was all he said, though ** _,_** before pulling the doors shut behind the eccentric young man.

Blair didn't even glance back at the departing bus, his attention was focused on a group of tall warehouses a couple of blocks distant. Moving as quickly as he could given the pain in his head, he made his way cautiously to the vaguely familiar neighborhood, until he found himself standing in front of the piled wreckage of what probably once had been a warehouse. The sight of the jumbled pile of partially blackened lumber was oddly upsetting, though he had no idea why it bothered him so. Glancing around he saw he was again in a mostly deserted area, and wondered where all the people of this city hid. He certainly hadn't seen many.

"They were testing drugs on monkeys when it blew up," a rasping voice informed him.

Blair turned to find a weathered little man standing beside him in the soiled light of the old street lamp. Shorter than Blair even, with wispy white hair in random orbit about head, and faded blue eyes.

"Really? Did they save the monkeys?"

"Well, Curly, I don't know. I suppose they might have. I never believed the story myself. Oh, I believe there were drugs about, but not monkeys. Who would believe something like that?" The little man laughed, a hearty baritone sound, incongruous from such a sunken chest.

Blair couldn't help but smile at the man's comments, and he was frankly grateful to see a friendly face. He noticed the first faint lightening of the sky to the east, heralding dawn's approach, and yawned hugely.

"I was heading on home when I saw you here. You need a place to sleep? I have enough room, as long as you don't mind doing the bulk of your sleeping during the day."

"That sounds good," Blair murmured gratefully. "I could use some sleep."

"Well come on along, then. Oh, I'm Aristotle, by the way. Who might you be?" he queried, sticking out his hand in greeting.

"I'm ... I'm ... I'm not sure who I am, to be honest," Blair admitted reluctantly, while reaching out to shake the proffered hand.

"You don't know who you are? How long have you been like this?" the older man wondered, his gaze on the obviously recent head injury.

"Since I woke up earlier, I guess."

"Where were you?"

"In the doorway of some abandoned building, somewhere else in this city. No one was around, and my head was hurting really bad. I must have fallen," Blair reported thoughtfully, frowning a little. "It's weird, man. I should know who I am, shouldn't I?"

Aristotle shrugged noncomittally. "Come on to my place and sleep. If you still can't remember in the morning, then we'll figure something out."

"Aren't you ... um ... worried I might steal from you, or something?" the police observer asked as they walked slowly up the street away from the burned-out building.

Again that delightful laugh rumbled out, bringing an answering smile to Blair's face. "Bless you, Curly, but I've nothing worth stealing. And out of idle curiosity, were you planning on robbing me?"

"I don't think so," Blair grinned, shaking his head at the question.

"Well, then, we should get along just fine!"

TSTS*TSTS

"Chief, I'm going to kill you when I get my hands on you," Jim muttered again as he pulled into a parking place at the precinct. "You promised you'd be here this morning!"

Jim's mood had gone from bad to worse when he discovered he was alone this morning, no wayward roommate in sight. He had watched for Blair's distinctive car, but there was no sign of it anywhere near the police station, which meant the kid was standing him up today as well.

It was high time he had a serious discussion with his free-spirited friend. Though he valued Blair's enthusiasm, and ability to act on the spur of the moment, Jim needed to be able to depend on the younger man. **Things are going to have to change** he assured himself as he got out of this vehicle, so absorbed in his thoughts he didn't notice the approach of the captain of Major Crime.

"Jim, just the man I want to see. Come on, we have to get over to the waterfront district," Simon said, ushering the detective to the passenger side of his car.

"What's at the waterfront, Simon, besides some bad smells and worse memories?" Jim asked, a cold ball of dread in his stomach; somehow he knew he wasn't going to like his captain's answer.

"They found a murder victim down there; Jack Drummond. Owns a string of video stores with questionable business practices," Simon told his passenger as they exited the garage and headed toward the waterfront district.

"The name doesn't ring a bell with me," Jim confessed with a puzzled frown. "Why is homicide calling us in?"

"Because near the murder scene they found a wallet. Blair's," the captain said as gently as possible. "Sandburg didn't happen to come home last night, did he?"

"No, he didn't." The big detective's voice was strained, the muscles in his jaw bunching in a manner Simon was all too familiar with.

"Well, the officers ran Sandburg's license, and found out his association with our department. They called just a few minutes before you got there. You know, Jim, it could be Sandburg lost his wallet, or it was stolen, and it's just coincidence that it turned up there."

"Sir, being around Sandburg for the last few months, I've learned something. Nothing is a coincidence with him. If his wallet is there, then he was there. And is probably in some sort of trouble. Can't you go any faster?"

Simon stepped up the speed without comment, turning on his flashers to help clear their path. He wouldn't have said anything to the young observer on a bet, but the gruff captain had grown rather fond of the hyperactive grad student. The kid was scrappy and determined, both characteristics Simon appreciated.

When they finally reached the murder scene, Jim got out of the car almost before it stopped moving, pulling out his badge to still any questions the officers already on the scene might have. He did a quick, cursory sweep of the area, trusting he could go back to the memory later and hone in on any details he needed, one of the latest techniques Blair had taught him.

"We found your observer's wallet over here," Officer Richards said, pointing to a recessed doorway. "Oh, and we just got the word, they found Mr. Sandburg's car a few blocks away," he reported, pointing up the street. "But no sign of him yet."

Jim and Simon shared a worried glance at this newest development, then Jim hunkered down, looking closely at the spot the wallet had been located.

"There's quite a bit of blood here," he said softly, only loud enough for Simon to hear, ever careful to hide his abilities from others.

Simon looked doubtfully at the dark, discolored old wood, unable to distinguish blood from amongst the various other stains, but trusting his detective. He signaled an officer to gather some samples of the wood for testing, then joined Jim at the head of the alley, standing silently as the sentinel went to work.

"See that track there, Simon?" Jim said, indicating a single dark line on the worn surface of the alley.

"Yeah, looks like a motorcycle track. So?"

"It's fresh, Simon. I can smell the rubber. Let's see how this worked. Sandburg's car breaks down, so he starts walking toward populated areas. He gets this far, hears/sees the murder, the killer sees him. He flees, tries to get inside this building, while the killer pursues on his motorcycle. He hits or shoots Sandburg, then takes him with him. That doesn't work. Not on a motorcycle." Jim paused, deep in thought.

"So the killer leaves the kid here, probably thinking he's dead. But where is he now? Did he wander off, get lost? Someone else grab him? The killer come back for him?" Simon thought out loud.

"He wouldn't come back for him, too risky. And if he was going to do that, he'd have taken Drummond, too. Someone else? That's possible. Could be Sandburg was trying to get to help and the wrong 'help' came by." Jim sighed, looking out at the street for any possible clues. **Come on, Chief, even YOU can't be that unlucky.**

TSTS*TSTS

"I'm gonna kill whoever it is banging in my head," Blair Sandburg muttered, opening weary eyes to gaze around at unfamiliar surroundings. The pain in his head was actually a bit less than the night before, but he still didn't remember anything of his life before waking up on that deserted street last night. However, his sleep had been disturbed by random images: men in uniforms with guns, men in civilian dress with guns. A naked dead woman floating in a bathtub. Him holding a gun on a helicopter pilot. Fighting with a dangerous, armed woman. He probably would have awoken screaming if not for the images interspersed between those. Images of a large, muscular man with a painfully short haircut and piercing blue eyes.

An image that should be frightening-but wasn't. Whoever the man was, he was important to Blair; he seemed to represent safety, sanity, and security.

"How you doing, Curly?" The now-familiar voice of Aristotle broke into his thoughts. "You figure out who you are yet?"

"I think I'm better, but I still don't remember anything."

"You sure you don't want to go to the hospital? They could maybe help you figure things out," the older man suggested.

"No, man. No hospitals. I've seen enough hospitals."

The faded eyes lit up a little at that. "Say, Curly, you sure you aren't remembering? How come you don't like hospitals?" There was no suspicion in his voice, just an honest hope the younger man was beginning to recall his past.

"No ... I don't know. I just ... when you say 'hospital' ... I get a sick feeling inside. I don't want to go there. It's getting better, I'm okay," the younger man muttered, half to himself.

"I won't force you to, seeing you feel that way. But, I maybe know where you could get your head looked at. And we can get a meal while we're at it. You feel up to some walking? It's kind of a long ways to go."

"Don't have any other plans for the day, I guess. And I'm with you if it means food," Blair replied with a small smile. "Food would definitely be good."

TSTS*TSTS

"Well, he managed to kill it again," the mechanic said with a resigned sigh. "I've told Blair repeatedly to LISTEN to the engine, but does he heed my words of wisdom? No."

Brent Douglas was a big man, with long dark hair pulled back in a braid, and a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard. He had been Blair's mechanic since the teaching assistant had tutored Brent's sister several years before, and the man's fondness for the missing anthropologist was obvious.

"He calls this heap a 'classic'. I call it the bankroll for my son's college education. At this rate, he should be able to fund his Master's without having to get a loan," Brent grinned, the spiel obviously well rehearsed. The two older men had the distinct impression Blair had probably heard it a time or twenty.

"What was the cause of death?'" Jim asked tersely, hoping it was something that corroborated his theory. The Homicide detectives had not come right out and accused Sandburg of anything, but they did say in no uncertain terms that they were anxious to talk to the missing observer. Blair had made considerable progress toward being accepted in the Major Crime unit, a great deal of it from his traumatic first day with his show of courage and ingenuity against Kincaid. Jim knew Joel Taggart, Henri Brown and Brian Rafe were all concerned when they'd heard Blair was missing. But to much of the remaining police force, the grad student was the sort who should only set foot inside the precinct as a suspect.

"The fuel pump is the culprit this time, detective. Gave up the ghost on him, stranding him wherever he was when it gave out."

"So, he would have had no choice but to call for help or go seeking help?" Simon asked, just to be sure he understood.

"Absolutely."

"Okay. Please fill out this paperwork as neatly as possible, I'll send an officer by in a little while to pick it up. Can we leave the car here for now?" the captain queried.

"Sure thing. When do you figure Blair will be by to pick it up?" Brent wondered, not having been told of his friend's fate, but guessing Blair was busy elsewhere.

"We'll have to get back to you on that," Jim said, evading the question.

"Sure, man, no problem." The look the mechanic gave him was curious, but he didn't pursue it, figuring Blair would fill him in later.

TSTS*TSTS

"You know, Jim, it wouldn't kill you to be a little more tactful with the homicide boys," Simon commented at they made their way back to Major Crime. They'd stopped by Homicide to let the detectives there know what the situation was with Sandburg's car, and Jim had ended up exchanging heated words with one of them when the man had hinted that Sandburg might have been an accomplice, not a victim.

"Simon, it wouldn't hurt them to remember Sandburg is innocent until proven guilty. It's a pretty basic right, and in Sandburg's case he's EARNED it by his actions," Jim ground out.

"I agree, Jim, but we need to be able to work with these guys. Be the bigger man in this case, if only for Sandburg's sake," Simon requested, laying a comforting hand on the broad shoulder of his best detective.

Before the irritated sentinel could come up with a suitably scathing reply, Henri and Rafe interrupted them.

"Captain, we found out what Sandburg was doing in that area," Henri announced.

"And what was that?"

"Professor Stanton asked Blair to deliver some stuff yesterday afternoon, as kind of a payback for his having taken some of Sandburg's classes when Blair was busy. One of the deliveries was not far from the waterfront district. So, we figure somehow he must have tried to shortcut or something."

"Did you happen to get a list of the deliveries?"

Rafe held it up with a grin. "Of course."

Simon scanned it quickly. "About a dozen drops. If we split them up between us, it we should be able to finish by the end of the shift," he decided, tearing the list in half and handing the top part back to Rafe and Henri.

"Come on, Jim, you're with me," he said, indicating the two younger detectives should get going.

"Simon, I haven't seen you do this much fieldwork in years," Jim noted laconically as they approached the elevator. "One would almost think you were taking a personal interest in this."

"I'm trying to keep you from doing something we will both regret. Now, Homicide is concentrating on Drummond's murder, so it's up to us to figure out where Sandburg wandered off to. But the bottom line, Detective, is that this is Homicide's case. I don't want you forgetting that."

"No, Sir. I won't forget that." **Unless they get between me and whoever hurt Blair** he amended silently.

TSTS*TSTS

"Thank God we're here. I don't think I could walk any more, my head is killing me," Blair moaned as he and Aristotle walked up the steep steps of the mission Aristotle had led them to.

"I'm sorry, Curly. I didn't think how much pain you would be in," the older man said unhappily. "I should have realized it was too far."

"Ah, no, man. Do NOT apologize. I appreciate you bringing me here," Blair assured his companion.

The old man smiled a little sadly. "I used to come here a lot, but these days I usually can't be bothered. Let's see if the doc is around," he invited, leading the way toward the back of the cavernous building.

"Hey, Doc! I was hoping you'd be here today!" Aristotle called out to a youngish man with the reddest hair Blair could imagine.

"Aristotle, it's good to see you! Did you change your mind?" he man asked with a hopeful look.

"Nothing to change it to," Aristotle chuckled. "Brought you a new patient, though. This here's Curly. Seems his head had some sort of altercation with a blunt instrument, and the instrument won. Curly, this is Doctor Jamieson McFairlane. He's a certified quack, but the cheapest medical care I know of. Worth every penny he doesn't charge you."

Blair chuckled at the unconventional introduction, shaking the proffered hand as the doctor scrutinized his new patient.

"Okay, young man, come on back here with me and we'll take a look at that head of yours. Okay, hop on up here and let's see what we have. How did you get hurt?" the medic asked as he gently probed the injury.

"I ... I'm not sure how it happened," Blair confessed uneasily.

"You don't remember, huh? What's the last thing you remember before you were hurt?"

When Blair remained silent the doctor looked at him more closely. "What's your name?" he asked in a firm voice.

Blair simply shrugged and shook his head with a miserable expression.

"Good God, Son, you need to be in a hospital, not in the back room of a mission. And you should contact the police, see if someone has reported you missing," McFairlane added, then stopped when he saw the look of mingled panic and stubbornness on the young face of his patient.

"No! No hospital, no police," Blair declared, shifting to get off the makeshift examination table and out of there.

"Okay. Okay, no hospital, no police. Let me finish, okay? I won't force you to do anything, but please, let me help as much as I can here, all right?" he placated the upset younger man.

Blair settled back warily, allowing the physician to clean and bandage his injury, and accepted the small bottle of acetaminophen he was given for the pain. Then he joined Aristotle for a meal of army beans and bread, before beginning the long walk back to the old warehouse his benefactor called home.

TSTS*TSTS

"Might just as well kill two birds with one stone," Simon commented, pulling out his cell phone and punching in a number. A few terse words later and he turned the phone off with a satisfied sigh.

"Brown and Rafe's last call was right near a pretty decent Chinese food restaurant, they'll pick up the food when they're done and meet us back at the station. Why don't we stop by the loft and make sure Sandburg hasn't wandered home, huh? That would just his way, to be sitting home safe and sound, grading papers or something, while we're all going nuts trying to find him," the captain grinned, hoping to lighten Jim's mood.

But Ellison wasn't having any of that. He knew full well his roommate had not blithely returned home, just as he knew Blair was injured and in need of his help. He didn't know if it was a Sentinel/Guide thing, or a Jim/Blair thing, but he knew without a doubt it was true. He first felt this connection shortly after meeting the hyper grad student, when Kincaid had taken over the entire police station and Blair had caught the psycho's attention. In the couple of months since then the connection had been proven time and again, so Jim didn't doubt what he felt was true. Blair needed him, and as soon as possible.

The stop by the loft was perfunctory at most. There were three messages on the machine, all for Blair from students wanting to discuss grades. No one had been there since Jim left that morning; the mail was still in the box. A tiny hope Jim hadn't even realized he'd harbored died quietly as he surveyed his undisturbed domain.

"Let's get back to the station and compare notes with Brown and Rafe," Jim muttered, ushering Simon out and locking the door behind him.

The meeting with the two younger detectives, over an early dinner, yielded no further information on the possible whereabouts of their missing observer. Discouraged, they made a last few phone calls and called it a night, walking together to the garage.

"Jim, I want you to get some rest. I'll come in tomorrow morning, and we can work on this some more. But it won't help if you are dead on your feet," Simon said quietly as they watched Brown and Rafe drive off.

"Sir, I appreciate the offer, but tomorrow's Sunday," Jim started, only to be interrupted by Simon's raised hand.

"Believe it or not, Jim, I do know what day it is. Now, I'll meet you here at eight sharp. Go home and rest. You can consider that an order," Simon told him.

"Yes, Sir."

Jim couldn't quite hold back the smile that crossed his features at Simon's instructions. The man had balked initially at Blair's involvement in Major Crimes via his work with Jim's senses, but he wasn't fooling Ellison. Blair had managed to get under Simon's skin as well, though he knew the big captain would probably rather eat ground glass than admit it.

He drove to the loft as per his orders, but that was as far as he planned to follow them. He hurried up the stairs, automatically noting the absence of a heartbeat in their home, and pulled out his warmest jeans and a thick sweater. It was the time of year when it got downright cold at night, plus, he needed to look a little less 'official' than he usually did. Changing his clothes quickly, he was back out the door in ten minutes and driving toward the waterfront district.

He made his way to the deserted parking lot where Sandburg's forlorn-looking Corvair had been found hours before, and parked his truck, locking it and engaging the alarm. He then began to attempt to trace his guide's probable path of the night before, walking briskly until he reached the murder scene.

In his mind's eye he could see Blair standing there, seeing a crime committed right in front of him, and trying desperately to escape, only to be foiled by the locked door of an abandoned building. Then what? Taken away while still unconscious? Or did he come to and wander off only to meet with another mishap?

Since there was no evidence that anyone else was involved, Jim made the only logical decision available to him; he began to follow Blair's most likely path to the nearest populated area.

His path, chosen as if he were a stranded, injured civilian, led him at last to a 24-hour gas station. He was almost to the front door when he saw the reflection of a shadowy figure lurking around the side of the building. Pulling his revolver, he decided on the direct approach and all but leapt past the corner of the building, leveling his gun at a very startled Brian Rafe.

"Dammit, Rafe!" Jim gasped, jerking his gun skyward. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing," the dark-haired detective countered, his eyes still rounded in surprise.

"Why don't you go first?" Jim suggested irritably.

"Henri and I got to thinking, it was probably nearly dark when Blair broke down, and if he lost consciousness for a time, it would be fairly late when he reached this area. The night shifts would be on. So we thought we'd come on down and do a little snooping," Rafe explained calmly.

Jim felt a faint flush of shame warm his face at Brian's words. The two detectives had come in on Saturday when they heard Blair was missing, had worked hard all day on the case, and were now doing some investigating on their own time. His irritation fled immediately in the face of his colleagues' dedication.

"I'm sorry, man. You startled me. I don't take kindly to nearly shooting a friend," Jim confessed. "Why were you skulking around out here anyway?"

"Henri thought it would go better if he went in there alone. Something about me not looking like I belong in this neighborhood."

Jim snorted a quick chuckle as he glanced over the dapper detective. "I can't really argue with him there, pal."

"Well, we wanted to get right to looking for Blair, and I didn't have time to change."

"What's taking Henri so long, anyway?" Jim wondered, turning toward the entrance of the business only to find the younger detective emerging with a frown.

"What a jerk," Henri grumbled before looking up to see Jim standing here. "Hey, Jim, what are you doing here?"

"Same thing you are, apparently. Did you learn anything useful?" Jim asked, tilting his head at the cashier inside.

"Oh, yeah. Like the milk of human kindness is definitely not flowing through that dude's veins. Come on and walk a bit, and I'll tell you what I know," Henri said, urging the larger man to start walking away from the gas station.

"The guy in there, one Leroy Gaines, saw Blair last night, around nine or ten. Said Blair had a head injury, and was asking if he ... Leroy ... recognized him."

"What!?" Jim exploded, turning a laser-like look on Henri Brown. "Blair was there just last night? Injured? What did that ass do? Kick him out?"

"Basically ... yeah. Whoa, Jim, don't do it, man," Henri said, grasping a massive arm to prevent one very pissed-off sentinel from going back to 'question' the clerk himself. "Won't do anyone any good, you get arrested for assault."

"He sent an obviously injured, disoriented man back out on the street without even calling the police or someone to pick him up?" Jim growled, fighting the urge to kill the person who had turned his injured guide aside.

"Jim! Look at this neighborhood, man! Look! That guy probably sees junkies, mental cases, you name it, every night. He's withdrawn from it, man. Self preservation - he can't help them, even if he wanted to. Let it go, you can't do any good there. Blair needs you free and able to find him. Let it go," Henri urged him, loosening his grip as bit as he felt the muscles under his hands relax a little.

"You know, this is ... this is good news," Brian added. "I mean, he's alive, right? He wasn't killed at the scene. Maybe he's just wandering around, trying to remember where he belongs."

"That's not exactly a very comforting thought, Rafe," Jim muttered.

"It's better than thinking he's dead," Brian insisted.

"Yeah, but Blair wandering around lost and confused? How long can he survive out here like that?"

"I dunno, Jim. We ARE talking about a guy who managed to help capture a helicopter full of bad guys using nothing but a flare gun and his creativity," Henri said with a chuckle. "He might do better than you think."

"He'd better," Jim mumbled, looking around with a dark expression. "Now, let's see if we can find anyone else who saw him."

TSTS*TSTS

***Flickering light ... candles in a breeze ... a wheelchair hanging from the ceiling ... cold ... chains ... alone with madness ... the eyes, oh God, the eyes ... a yellow scarf ... falling ... they fell ... gunshots ... JIM!***

"Jim! Don't kill Jim!" Blair cried out, sitting up suddenly in the cold silence of the warehouse. He looked around in confusion at the barren area illuminated by sunlight filtering through filthy panes of glass.

"Hey, Curly, you okay? Who's Jim? Is that you?" Aristotle asked, looking at his new roommate with the confused expression of a man jolted from sleep.

"Jim's ... Jim. My friend, I think. Oh, man ... I don't need dreams like that," Blair shivered from a combination of cold and residual fear.

"Dreams like what?" the older man asked, settling down near Blair's thin pallet and looking at him with patient curiosity.

"Oh, man. I was in this warehouse ... and there was a guy. He was nuts ... he ... he was going to ... to eat me. No. No, he was going to BE me. He had stuff from people he'd ... been ... before, I ... I think. God, his eyes were insane. I was chained up, couldn't move. Then Jim came, and they fought. And ... and ... fell. Then gunshots, and then I woke up. Jim wasn't ... he didn't ... I don't know if he's alive still, man," Blair told him, wrapping his arms around himself protectively. "I was so cold, man. So cold," he whispered.

"Do you think this was a memory? Does it FEEL like a memory?"

"Yes. God help me, yes," Blair muttered.

"Well, Curly, no wonder you don't want to remember. But, it's good. You know, good that you're remembering stuff, even if it is kind of bad stuff. You need to remember. Anything else?"

"No, not that I can recall. Is it really that cold or is it just me?"

"It's pretty cold, Curly. Sun's just barely up, hasn't warmed up much yet," Aristotle informed him.

"Is that why you sleep during the day and are up at night? To stay warm?"

"Partly. Partly because that's the way I lived for a long time."

"What were you ... before?" Blair wondered, pulling his knees up to his chin and looking at his new friend curiously.

"Before? Ah, Curly, I was a lot of things. But the job I had the longest, the only 'career' I had, if you can call it that, was as a truck driver. Ran my own rig from one side of this country to the other, hauling everything from explosives to cat litter," he chuckled at the memories.

"Really? Why'd you quit?"

"Ah, couldn't pass the physical any longer, my blood pressure, you know. When I came off the road, I didn't know what to do with myself. I hadn't saved anything, I wasn't used to doing regular work or living in a regular place. Found myself in a homeless shelter, which wasn't all that bad, but I prefer this. Freedom, you know. I had it for years, I'm not ready to give it up now."

Blair considered the former trucker seriously, gnawing on his bottom lip. "It doesn't seem right," he commented. "There must be a way for you to get a warmer, better place to stay."

"Haven't you ever heard that fine old saying, goes like I'd rather be a king in hell rather than a servant in heaven? Or something like that," the old man asked before noticing Blair's rueful expression. "Ha, dumb question, right?" he chuckled.

"Well, no, I don't remember hearing it, but I understand what you mean by it," the younger man shrugged. "Who am I to tell you what to do, huh? I don't even know who I am." Blair paused, considering what he had just said. "Um ... that didn't make any sense, but I think you know what I meant."

Aristotle laughed heartily at that. "Indeed I do. And if you are saying things that make so little sense, and I am understanding them, then I believe it is a sign we need more sleep. What do you say to that, Curly?"

"Oh, man, I am down with that. Totally," Blair yawned, stretching out and watching Aristotle settle down on his pallet. "Thanks. For being so good to me," he said into the quiet of the warehouse.

"You're welcome, Curly. Now get some sleep," the older man replied, closing his eyes and relaxing. "This time try to have a pleasant dream, huh?"

"Yeah, pleasant would be nice," Blair mumbled as he drifted off to a sleep that was, thankfully, dreamless and peaceful.

TSTS*TSTS

"There's been no progress in finding the killer," Simon announced as he and Jim settled in his office. "They will continue their investigation on Monday, according to the message they left yesterday. Now, Jim, did you go home as ordered?"

"Yes Sir," Jim replied without irony.

"Did you sleep?"

"Yes Sir."

Simon gave Jim an appraising look. "Did you go out and continue the investigation last night?"

"Yes Sir."

Simon sighed with mild exasperation. "Did you learn anything?" he asked, deciding to forego any lecture.

"Yeah, Blair didn't die on that street," Jim reported calmly.

"You sure?" There was a spark of renewed hope in the captain's dark eyes.

"Yep, have a witness, saw Sandburg late that night, ten or eleven or thereabouts," Jim replied with a slight grimace, then proceeded to give Simon a full report.

"So, the logical step would be to search any nearby locations where a person without a home or money would go, huh?" Simon asked, rubbing his jaw. "Not a lot right there, but it's all we have for now. Of course, you realize he could have taken a bus to almost anywhere, right?"

"Yeah. You put out an APB on him, right? Have the media been informed? Bring the public in on this, maybe?" Jim suggested.

"Well, now that we know he's probably alive, and possibly ... confused ... yeah, I think going public would be a good idea. Let me set that in motion, then we can go down to the waterfront again and look some more."

They spent the morning and early afternoon visiting all the shelters within a twenty block radius, interviewing street people, checking alleys. They found no sign of the missing anthropologist, though they did find evidence of a crack lab, which they turned in to Narcotics. Both men were footsore and weary as they climbed into Simon's car after yet another fruitless interview.

"I dunno, Jim, it's as if Sandburg disappeared off the face of the earth," Simon sighed, leaning back in the seat. "You have any suggestions how to proceed here?"

"I'd like to try something, I'm not sure how well it'll work, but we're running out of options. I want you to cruise the waterfront district very slowly, and I'm going to listen for Sandburg," Ellison replied a bit hesitantly.

"'Listen for Sandburg'? What ... how ... do you listen for Sandburg?"

"I know the sound of his heartbeat. I can't explain it, Simon, but I found I can pick out his heartbeat, even in a crowded room. Blair thinks it may be a sentinel/guide thing, assuring the sentinel can always find his guide. I dunno. But, I know it works, and right now I can't think of anything else to try."

"Too much information, Jim," Simon said with a smile that let his friend know it was intended as a joke. Though the whole sentinel business rather bothered Simon at times, he had seen enough to know it was genuine, and the increase in Ellison's solve rate was all the supporting evidence he needed. That, and the overall improvement in Jim Ellison's attitude since a certain hyper grad student finagled his way into the older man's home and life. If that was a 'sentinel/guide thing,' then Simon was all for it.

Jim chuckled quietly in response, then sobered. "I'm going to be turning my hearing way up to do this, so please, don't make any loud noises if you can avoid it."

"Got it."

The big car cruised slowly along the seedy streets, while Jim sat back with his eyes closed and an expression of intense concentration on his face. He filtered past the ambient sounds, seeking that one familiar rhythm that centered his world.

An oddly discordant sound filtered in, and Jim's attention turned to that, trying to decipher the sound, it was metal against ... plastic? Some sort of machine? What was it doing working here? If he could just analyze it ...

There was a sharp sting on his left cheek, then Simon's voice booming painfully in his ear.

"Jim? Jim, knock this off! Snap out of it, man."

"Si ... Simon ... what? What happened?" he asked, hastily turning down the dial on his hearing.

"You tell me. One minute you seemed fine, then I looked over at you and your eyes were glazed, your breathing shallow and strained. I asked if you were all right, and you ignored me. No matter how loud I asked. So ... well, I didn't know what to do ... so I slapped you. You okay? What happened to you just now? Was that one of those 'zones' Sandburg's always harping about?"

"Yeah, Simon, sorry. Guess I was trying too hard."

"Well, did you hear something to set you off like that?"

"Yeah, but it was mechanical, a machine of some sort. Could be a ... a ... coffee maker for all I know. I do know it wasn't Blair." The detective rubbed his hands over his face with a weary sigh.

"Jim, how much sleep did you get last night?" Simon asked gently.

"Not a lot. Couple hours, maybe."

"Go home, Ellison. That's a direct order. Go home and sleep." He held up one hand to cut off his companion's protest. "I'll come pick you up at ... say ... seven tonight. We'll get some dinner, and do some more searching among the night folks."

"Simon, you don't have to do this ..."

"I know I don't HAVE to do this, but I don't want you getting hurt out here alone if that happens again."

"Thanks, Simon," Jim said sincerely, easing back in his seat and relaxing while Simon drove him back to the loft.

A warm shower behind him and a cold beer in one hand, Jim wandered onto the balcony and looked out over the city he called home, his thoughts on his friend and roommate. His guide. There had been so many changes, so quickly, in the past few months. And there in the middle of them was a curly haired young man with laughing eyes, hands flying through the air as he spoke, all but bouncing with enthusiasm at each new discovery. Where Jim had seen his evolving senses as a burden, Blair had seen them as a gift, an opportunity, something to be used and treasured and enjoyed. The older man knew Blair was a little envious of Jim's abilities, but he threw himself into helping Jim in any way he knew or could create.

And it wasn't only the sentinel thing Blair helped with. Jim had forgotten what it was like to have a partner, someone to bounce ideas off of, to contribute their own ideas and perceptions, to watch his back. Ellison found he could be a little more aggressive in pursuing suspects or evidence, because he knew he had a backup, though he wished at times the kid would learn to actually stay put when told to do so. But it wasn't every anthropology student who could face the things Blair already had faced, and come out of it with sanity and enthusiasm intact.

"I know you're out there somewhere, Chief. Hang on, we'll find you," Jim promised softly before turning and heading upstairs to get some much-needed sleep.

TSTS*TSTS

"Get out of here, you scum, before I do the world a favor and kill you," the harsh voice announced as a rough hand grabbed Blair's arm and dragged him to a standing position. Roused so roughly from much- needed sleep, the anthropologist was groggy and disoriented.

"Wha ... Simon?" he queried, then almost immediately wondered who 'Simon' was.

"What do you boys want with us? We aren't hurting anything," Aristotle argued, looking worriedly over at the still confused Blair. "Leave him alone, he's been hurt enough."

"You old fool, this is our turf, man, and we doan want no white trash laying around," the young leader growled. "You can get your pale asses outta here, or we can fix it so you won't hafta worry about where you sleep ever again." His eyes were the dark, dead brown of a man who just didn't care.

Both Blair and Aristotle looked around, noting no less than six young men, all dark and very well built, angry disdain twisting their features.

The former truck driver sighed, then straightened up a bit shakily. "We'll go. No need to be violent," he said, indicating to Blair that he should come along. They took their blankets, and Aristotle grabbed a very worn backpack stuffed with a few bits of extra clothing, before turning to leave.

He glanced at the gang leader as if he wanted to say something, then abruptly changed his mind and shuffled toward the exit, not looking back. Blair followed silently, keeping his gaze downcast, stepping up to walk beside his benefactor once they reached the street.

"What do we do now?" Blair ventured at last, glancing sideways at his companion.

"Now we find a new place to stay. I know of some places near the old railroad station, they aren't as nice as that was, but they'll do. It's just a lot longer walk to find food and such, but we'll get by, right, Curly?" the old man smiled.

"Right. I guess. Does that happen a lot?"

"Often enough. In a week or two it'll be okay to go back, probably. Ah, well, it was time to get up anyway, I suppose. Let's get ourselves settled, and we can find someplace to get some food."

The two of them walked slowly onward, toward another nearly-forgotten, decaying part of Cascade's past, as the sun slowly dispersed the late morning chill.

TSTS*TSTS

"You know Blair would kill you if he saw you eating that," Simon observed, biting into his own double-decker burger.

"Well, when we get him back we just won't tell him, will we?" Jim replied around a mouthful of fries.

"Since I don't want to hear his lecture any more than you do, I guess we could avoid mentioning it," Simon agreed.

"I knew you'd see it my way," Jim smirked, gathering up their trash to throw away. "If you're done, we could get going," he urged his captain.

Simon smiled indulgently as they walked to his car, with Jim settling in the passenger seat. "You have a plan, Jim?"

"Something I thought of earlier, before the mess at the waterfront. What if Sandburg caught a city bus? I know Rafe and Brown talked to one or two drivers last night, but no one recognized Blair. I'd like to try again, if you don't mind. See if one of them saw him, even if he didn't board the bus."

"Sounds fine to me. I have my tennis shoes on this time, better for walking," the senior officer grinned, hoping to keep Jim's spirits up.

"I appreciate your help, Simon," Jim said diffidently, a bit surprised to find it was true.

The big captain answered with a dismissive growl, which brought a ghost of a smile to his detective's face. They parked the car near the gas station where Blair had been seen, then started up the street, hoping they were following in the missing man's tracks. They had gone only a few blocks when they spied a familiar figure.

"Joel, what are you doing here?" Jim asked.

"Ah, well ... I thought I'd come on down ... you know I used to be a detective ... wanted to keep my hand in," the bomb squad captain tried to explain.

"I see," Jim grinned, turning to find Simon was smiling as well.

"Okay, so I've gotten to like Blair. He's a good kid, I just wanted to help," Joel confessed.

"Thanks, Joel," Jim said, clapping one meaty shoulder. "I appreciate that, and I know Blair will, too."

"Anyway, I got some information that might help. I have a buddy who works at the bus station; he got me the information on who was working this area the night Blair disappeared. I wasn't able to talk to the guy, he'd already left, but this stop is on his route tonight, and he should be here in fifteen minutes or so."

Simon smiled at his colleague. "You ever want to go back to being a detective, Joel, you just let me know. Good work."

Distracted by worry, both men missed the shadow that flitted briefly over Joel's broad face. "What? And give up the thrills of the bomb squad? No way, man."

"Looks like it's running early," Jim commented, staring down the street at a far distant pair of headlights.

"You sure that's the bus, Jim?" Joel wondered. "How can you tell from here?"

"Just a guess," Jim amended, still staring down the street to avoid having to look at Joel as he lied to him.

"You brought the picture of the kid, right?" Simon asked as the bus slowed toward a stop at the bench they were standing by.

"Yep," Jim replied as he entered the bus, stepping up to the driver and pulling out a small photo and his badge. "I'm Detective Ellison of the Cascade PD, and we're trying to locate this man, who's been missing since Friday night. Have you seen him?"

The man studied the picture carefully, then gave a soft scoff. "Oh, yeah. On my second cycle through this street. Polite enough young fella, but kind of dazed. Confused. I told him he needed to go to the hospital, he had a hell of a cut on his forehead. But he said he didn't like hospitals, and went back and took a seat, calm as you please."

"Do you remember where you let him out?" Jim asked.

"Oh, yeah. The old industrial district. Wasn't even a scheduled stop, but he came up and asked to be let out, and I figure, what the hey, let 'em out if they want out. Asked if he was sure, and he said he was. Ah, think it was near Jackson Street. Walked off like he knew where he was going," the driver concluded.

Jim's jaw muscles clenched spasmodically. "You let an obviously injured man off in a dangerous area like that?"

"Listen, Detective, like I said, he seemed to know what and where he wanted to go. What do you expect me to do? Take every passenger with an injury to the hospital against their will? Look around you; this is a bad neighborhood. It's not the first time I've picked up a bleeding passenger, and it won't be the last. I see you got the information on my ID, so if that's all you need, I have to keep rolling." The man's voice softened a little as Jim started to go. "If he's a friend of yours, if he's in some sort of trouble, I hope you find him okay."

"Thanks, man," Joel replied when Jim remained silent. The doors closed and the bus lumbered on its way, leaving the three men to decide what to do next.

"The old industrial district. That's where Sandburg lived when I first met him. I'll bet that's where he went back to," Jim said at last, setting aside his anger at the bus driver.

"The place that burned down?" Joel asked.

"Yeah. It was Sandburg's home, maybe the sight of that neighborhood triggered some sort of memory for him. You want to give us a ride back to Simon's car, Joel?"

"Sure thing, and I'll follow you on over to Blair's old place. Help you look."

Thirty minutes later they were parked in front of the pile of rubble that was once Blair Sandburg's home.

"The kid lived here?" Joel asked incredulously.

"Yeah. Paid $850 a month for the privilege, too."

"Ah, youth," Simon smiled, getting an answering grin from Joel. "Let's take a look around," the captain suggested, noticing Joel was carrying a flashlight, as were he and Jim. "Why don't you take that side, Joel, and we'll take this one?"

"You got it."

When Joel was safely away Simon turned to his so-far silent partner. "Well? You hear anything?"

"No, dammit, nothing. Well, at least not Blair. I do hear heartbeats, a block or two over, I think. We need to be sure not to let Joel go that way alone, I know there's suspected gang activity in this area now," Jim reported, sounding a bit distracted.

"You can hear heartbeats a block away?" Simon asked, his eyes rounded in surprise.

"Faintly."

"Well, what do you want to do, Jim? Want to try to search tonight? Wait until tomorrow? What?"

Jim stood thinking for a moment, then turned to his captain. "Let's send Joel home, then we can try the same thing we did at the waterfront. I'm better rested now, and I'll be more careful. And if I do zone, you can always hit me again," he said with a faint smile. "If I hear him, we'll decide what to do then. If I don't, then, with your permission, I'd like to have a team help me search the area tomorrow. I agree, it's not likely to be effective searching at night, and could be dangerous."

"Sounds good. Let's go tell Joel he can go get his beauty sleep," Simon said, clapping Jim on the back encouragingly.

To be continued...so silly, really...is long since finished. Final part to be posted shortly...K


	2. Chapter 2

"... and the search continues for the person, or persons, who killed businessman Jack Drummond," the tinny voice of the radio announcer was a muted background noise to the Monday morning bustle of Major Crimes.

"Excuse me, but I'm looking for Detective James Ellison," the red-haired man asked Henri as the busy detective hurried by.

"He's in a meeting with the captain," Henri informed him. "Can someone else help you?"

"They told me downstairs to see Detective Ellison. It's about the missing police observer I heard about on the news this morning."

"You have some information on him?"

"I believe I treated him for a head injury at the mission Saturday."

"Hold that thought, I'll be right back," Henri said, holding up one finger and turning toward the captain's office.

At Simon's barked response, Brown stuck his head in the door and looked at Jim. "Sorry, captain, but there's a guy out here, said he thinks he treated Blair for a head injury on Saturday."

Jim met his captain's eyes with a look of renewed hope. "Send him in, please," Simon requested, his meeting with Ellison suddenly unimportant.

They watched the young man enter nervously, his jacket clutched in his hands. "I'm Captain Simon Banks, this is Detective Jim Ellison. Please have a seat, Mr ...?"

"McFairlane. Actually, it's Dr. Jamieson McFairlane," he said, shaking the proffered hands.

"You said you treated Blair Sandburg?" Jim prompted him.

"If it wasn't him then it was his identical twin brother. Came in with one of the semi-regulars, an old retired truck driver that goes by the name Aristotle. Mr. Sandburg had ... has ... a fairly nasty-looking head injury. A gash, with surrounding deep bruising and swelling. He said he'd been unconscious, but had no idea how long. He didn't show any signs of a concussion, just complained of a headache. And the memory loss, of course."

"Memory loss?" Simon asked sharply.

"Yes. He claimed to not remember anything from before he woke up on Friday night. Didn't know his name; Aristotle called him 'Curly'."

"And you let him leave like that?" Jim demanded.

Dr. McFairlane turned his mild gaze on the angry detective. "I suggested very strongly he go to the hospital, but he refused. Point blank refused. For all I knew, the young man was a criminal of some sort, or a refugee from an abusive situation. The injury was not infected, his overall health seemed good enough, and he was in the company of someone who was looking out for him. All in all, he was better off than most folks I treat there. But for all I knew, forcing him to seek help at a hospital or from the police would have put him in greater danger. I treat people at the mission, Detective. I don't ask them if they are good or bad, if they are wanted by the law or hiding from someone. They come to me there because they know I won't ask the questions. I treat their injuries and sicknesses, and when I think they should go to a hospital I tell them so, have even driven a few there myself. But I cannot ... I will not ... force them. As far as I'm concerned, they all still have the right to say 'no'."

"Any idea where this Aristotle holes up? Where we might find him?" Simon asked.

"Not really. Last time he mentioned anything, I think he was staying over in the old industrial district. I see him from time to time, but not that often. I do know he tends to wander most of the night, and does his sleeping early morning to noonish. When I do see him, it's always in the afternoon."

"What about Sandburg's memory loss? Do you think it was permanent?" Jim wanted to know.

"I have no idea. I don't know why he lost his memory. The blow to this head was pretty severe, but I wouldn't have thought severe enough to cause memory loss. Sometimes it can be caused by emotional or mental factors. I just don't know enough about how he got hurt to hazard an opinion. May I ask you a question?"

Simon nodded his consent.

"The reports said he's a police observer. Why was he observing? Considering becoming a police officer?"

"No, he was observing us for his Anthropology Dissertation on closed societies," Simon told him, giving the standard reason for Blair's association with the force.

"He's going for his doctorate? Oh, my goodness. Well, I sure hope you find him. And if I see him again, I'll get him to stay there and I'll call you right away," the redhead promised.

"Thanks. And thank you for coming in, and for taking care of him," Simon said, ushering the man out while Jim sat, staring moodily at nothing.

"Yeah. I hope it all turns out right," he repeated before turning to walk out.

"Well, Jim, guess it's another argument for searching the old industrial district. Let's get the team together and get to work. You heard what he said, the guy's a night wanderer. Could be why you didn't hear anything last night."

"You're right, Simon. It's just frustrating me. If just one of these people had thought to call the police when they saw him wandering around injured ..."

"Jim, let's just work with what we've gotten, okay? You can't change the attitude down there; so let it go. Sandburg needs us to be concentrating on finding him."

"Yes, Sir."

TSTS*TSTS

"Maybe we could make a spear and kill some fish or something," Blair suggested facetiously as he and Aristotle walked toward a more downtown locale that evening. They'd spent the day searching for a new shelter, finally deciding on an old shack with a tin roof riddled with holes. It would do until it rained, which, in Cascade, could be any time.

"Well, not a bad idea, except for the gutting and cooking part," Aristotle laughed.

"I do have a knife," Blair commented, pulling out his Swiss Army Knife.

"Hey, Curly, that's a fine one," the older man declared, pulling out a couple of the blades experimentally. "I had one like this when I was a kid."

"What happened to it?"

"Dunno. Just lost it I guess, somewhere along the line. Now, come on, before they run out of the good stuff," he said, indicating a battered-looking mission.

This neighborhood was rougher than the others they had visited, and Blair instinctively kept his head down, minding his own business. Yesterday he'd picked up a large jacket and stocking cap from a different shelter, so his long hair was at least partially hidden.

"Just keep close, Curly, and you'll be okay," Aristotle advised him as they took seats to eat the soup and bread they'd been given.

They ate quickly, wanting to get out of this area as soon as possible, before the usual trouble began. They had finished their meal and returned the bowls and utensils when a large, belligerent man accosted them.

"Did you take my dog?" the man demanded angrily.

"No, sorry, we don't have a dog, we wouldn't take one," Aristotle said soothingly.

"You took my dog!" the man shouted, swaying with age and drink.

"No, really, we didn't. But if we see one, we'll send it your way," Blair told him, edging past the man.

"I want my dog!" he said, sliding down the wall to the floor to collapse in tears. "I want my dog."

"Come on, Curly, it's time for us to get out of here."

They hurried to the door, turning back up the street, backtracking. They had gone almost five blocks when a group of shadows separated themselves and coalesced into three young men in their late teens out looking for trouble.

"You wanna get past us, you gotta pay the toll," the largest boy said, swaggering up to the two men. Even though it was obvious their antagonist was just barely out of childhood, he still stood a good three inches taller than either man, with a heavily muscled physique.

"We don't have anything. Look at us. Do we look like we're loaded with money and worldly possessions?" Aristotle asked curiously.

"Well, we can always have the fun of making you bleed," the leader said, circling them predatorily.

"You need a new hobby, young man."

"But, I like this one," he said, closing in on the older man.

Blair launched himself at the younger man, shouting at Aristotle. "Run, get out of here! Go on!"

Aristotle paused, then stumbled backwards as one of the other boys struck at him. Blair threw down his opponent and took on the one who had hit at Aristotle, throwing him bodily at the other and giving them some time.

"Go on, please. I'll be okay, I can outrun them," Blair whispered urgently. Seeing the logic, the older man took off, barely sidestepping another attack from the leader. Blair interceded, allowing Aristotle enough time to make good his escape.

"You'll regret that, you little shit," the teen growled, landing a vicious blow to Blair's side as his cohorts regained their feet. Spinning away from him, Blair took off in the opposite direction from Aristotle, terror giving him additional speed. Turning corners at random, trying to find any way to throw his pursuers off, Blair gamely ignored the pain pounding in his head, the burning agony in his ribs from where he'd been hit, knowing full well it would be far worse if he were caught.

Up ahead he saw his salvation; a delivery van just pulling away from the curb and toward a busy cross street. Putting on a burst of speed, Blair grabbed on to the old-fashioned handle for the back door, standing on the wide bumper. The punks threw up their hands in surrender when they saw the van pull easily out onto the busy street with Blair still on the back.

The anthropologist held on for dear life, his ragged panting gradually slowing, much to his relief. Deep breathing was not fun with bruised ribs, it seemed. When the van finally stopped at a signal, Blair got off and moved to the sidewalk to try to figure out where he was now.

There was an unkempt-looking park across the street, and after scanning the area to assess the potential danger, Blair crossed over to it, hoping to find a secluded, sheltered area in which to lay low for a while. He was hurting and exhausted as the adrenalin high crested, then faded, and he needed to sleep, or at least sit quietly somewhere.

He walked along a rutted, meandering path until he found a thick stand of bushes, which looked like it would suit his purposes. Glancing around to ensure he was not observed, he crawled under them, curling into a tight ball to conserve his meager body heat, and despite the cold and discomfort, drifted into an uneasy sleep.

TSTS*TSTS

**If I don't get some sleep tonight, Simon will kill me.**

Jim rolled over again, angrily thumping his pillow in frustration. When the hell had he become so dependent on his roommate's heartbeat to help him sleep? When did he cross the point of no return with the younger man? The loft, which had been home to him for several years before Sandburg, was as familiar as his own skin, was now suddenly cold and uninviting without the presence of the anthropologist.

Unable to relax, the sentinel stalked downstairs, stopping to stare out the window at the city laid out below. He felt a weak tendril of a peaceful presence, and traced it to that tiny space below his room, filled with the very essence of his roommate. Without conscious thought he laid his large frame out on the small bed, and within minutes had drifted off to sleep.

TSTS*TSTS

"What is with these dreams of people trying to kill me?" Blair muttered as he carefully extracted himself from his hiding spot. It was still very early morning, but the police observer had no desire to try to sleep any more. His night had been spent drifting in and out of dreams, most of which had been violent and confusing ...

... Images of a beautiful dark-haired girl kissing him, followed by someone in her family holding a very large knife to his throat, then knocking him out. And the girl telling him she hated him, and she loved him, but either way she was leaving. Men in uniforms chasing him, shooting at him through a snack machine and on a hanging platform outside a very tall building. A helicopter ride during which he pushed someone out the door. An explosion at a mission and finding a monk dead at the foot of some stairs. Being handcuffed to a beautiful woman on a train. And guns. Always guns being pointed at him, near him. And the worst of all, the one that came back the most often of all, the man who wanted to be him. Blair wondered if that was what happened, that the man won, and took Blair's identity and that was why he didn't remember ...

But as always, he also had the image of a tall, rugged-looking man who was always there; no matter how bad the situation, it seemed he always got there in time. Jim. Blair didn't know how he knew that, but the man's name was Jim. And with that came the urge, sublimated when with Aristotle, that he needed to find Jim. If he could find Jim, Jim would have the answers. In the dreams, Jim was often in a place called Major Crime, surrounded by policemen.

He didn't like the idea of going to the police station, there was an instinctive aversion to that idea, but unfortunately, that was where Jim was.

And wherever Jim was, that was where he needed to go.

TSTS*TSTS

"I promise you, Simon, you ever mention that to Sandburg, and I'll kill you, and paperwork be damned," Jim threatened with a grim smile.

"Don't worry, Jim. Your secret is safe with me." Simon held up his hands in a placating gesture, smiling despite himself. He had stopped by the loft to check on Jim, and in an unguarded moment the detective had admitted to sleeping in his roommate's room.

"Let's get this meeting over with so we can get to work, huh?" Simon said, ushering Jim into Homicide, where they were to meet with the detectives who were working the Drummond case, to compare notes.

Detective Leonard Kirk and his partner, Gary Turner, were focusing on the murder angle, trying to establish possible suspects, then going through the slow process of elimination. They very much wanted to speak to Blair, though neither of them seemed to feel the observer was a suspect. At this point they had already uncovered over a dozen possibilities, and that excluded any family members. Jack Drummond had not been a man who was well liked.

Jim found his thoughts drifting restlessly; the more he tried to concentrate on the meeting, the more his mind drifted. Finally disgusted, he tried to figure out what was distracting him, letting his senses stretch a little, until he heard something that made his own heart beat faster.

"Sorry to interrupt, but I forgot. I'm expecting a call any minute now, I have to get upstairs, if you'll just maybe send up any pertinent information you have regarding the suspects, I can review it later," Jim rambled, standing up anxiously.

Simon gave his best detective a puzzled look, but, taking his cue from Jim, stood and excused himself to leave with Ellison.

"What the hell was that all about?" the captain demanded as he followed Jim to the stairs.

"Blair's upstairs," Jim said shortly, taking the steps three at a time.

"What?" Deciding it wasn't the time for questions, Simon shut up and concentrated on keeping pace with his detective. Reaching their floor, Jim slowed to a fast walk, seeing the Major Crime detectives standing in a loose semi-circle around his desk. Joel was the closest to the desk, and was speaking slowly and calmly to the small, hunched figure in Jim's chair.

"Thank God you're here, Jim," Joel said, relinquishing his position gratefully. The other detectives backed off further at Simon's gesture, leaving Jim space to deal with his partner.

"Hey, Chief, it's good to see you," the sentinel said gently, letting affection color his voice. He swept his guide with his senses, taking in the terrified speed of his heartbeat, the shallow respiration and beginnings of congestion in the lungs, sensing the slightly elevated temperature. He could see only the tail end of the cut on Sandburg's head, but the bruise around the eye below it was dark and slightly swollen. The grad student was out and out filthy, what Jim could see of the curly hair was matted and foul, and a remarkably full beard obscured his lower face. **Sure is hairy for such a little dude,** flitted across the detective's mind.

"J ... Jim? Are you ... Jim?" Blair asked hesitantly, turning dazed blue eyes to the man who had occupied his dreams for the last three nights.

"Yeah, Junior, that's me. Let me take a look at you, okay? I just want to see how bad you're hurt," the larger man said soothingly, moving slowly closer to the obviously spooked smaller man.

"Am ... am I in trouble?" he asked as Jim carefully pulled back the stocking cap.

"No, Chief, you're not in trouble," Jim assured him as he checked over the ragged wound. "How's your head feel?"

"Hurts some," Blair admitted. "But not as bad as it did." He felt an overwhelming sense of relief; he'd found 'Jim', and Jim was being kind to him. It seemed the dreams were right after all.

"Well, we should get you checked out at the hospital anyway," he said, noticing how his guide flinched at that idea.

"I don't like hospitals."

"I know, Chief, but humor me, huh? I'll feel better if they check you over." He smiled encouragingly at Blair, knowing the younger man would give in for him.

Blair nodded without looking up, knowing instinctively Jim wanted only what was best for him. There was an odd, and very welcome, feeling of having come home now that he was around the bigger man.

"Chief, I have to ask you a couple of questions, okay?"

A quick nod greeted that request, and Jim felt a rising unease. Blair seemed so subdued, not at all his usual self.

"Do you remember what happened the night you got hurt?"

Blair shook his head, muttering a soft negative answer.

"Do you know your name?"

"Chief?" Blair asked hesitantly.

Jim heard the muted gasps from the other detectives, and the fear in his heart grew stronger.

"No, 'Chief' is just a nickname. Your name's Blair. Blair Sandburg. Do you recognize anyone here, besides me?"

The blue eyes skittered from face to face, his discomfort becoming more obvious as he again shook his head in the negative. Jim heard the already fast heartbeat speed up.

"It's okay, Chief. Here's the plan. I'm going to take you to the hospital, have them check you over. Then I'll take you home to the loft, give you a chance to clean up, eat, rest. Maybe things will start making more sense then, okay?"

"Okay, Jim. Whatever you want."

TSTS*TSTS

"Alright, Chief, home sweet home," Jim announced, opening the door to the loft with a flourish and ushering his guide in.

"I live here?" Blair asked, looking around curiously, but with no sign of recognition.

"Yep. That's your room over there, Junior. Under the stairs. It's not very big, but you haven't complained any," Jim told him, indicating the curtained-off area that made up Blair's small domain.

"I slept under some bushes in the park last night, man. In comparison, this seems huge," the younger man smiled, pushing aside the curtain to peer inside.

"Why don't you grab some clothes and hit the shower while I fix us something to eat. The doc said you needed to catch up on a few meals." The doctor had also said to treat Blair as normally as possible, and not ask constantly if he remembered anything. Jim quickly discovered the urge to ask that question was nigh on impossible to resist, and the strain of having to watch his every word was already getting to him.

"Sounds good, man. A shower sounds real good."

"Amen to that," Jim muttered to himself. He could barely stand to be around Blair, with the anthropologist smelling the way he did.

Blair emerged from his room with an armful of his clothes and a puzzled expression, looking around as if trying to find something.

"Ah, Chief, the bathroom's down this way," Jim smiled, leading Blair to the room and showing him what items were his to use. Leaving the smaller man to clean up, he returned to the kitchen to pull together a meal of soup and sandwiches.

A half hour later a freshly showered and shaved Sandburg emerged, his damp curls loose around his face, the old clothes he'd been wearing bundled in his arms.

"I should probably just throw this stuff away, it's so filthy," Blair commented, indicating the clothing.

"Um, why don't you put them in here," Jim replied, holding out a trash bag. "We may need them for evidence."

"Evidence? Did I commit a crime?" Worried blue eyes sought out Jim's.

"No, Chief, you didn't," he said with total confidence, reassuring his friend. "But, you very well may have been the VICTIM of a crime."

"Oh." Blair put the clothing in the bag as requested, and placed the bag inside his small room.

"Sit on down here, Darwin, and let me change that bandage now that you've managed to get it thoroughly soaked," Jim offered, watching Blair carefully lower himself into the chair. In addition to the head injury, Blair had picked up some extremely bruised ribs in his encounter the night before.

"'Chief', 'Junior', 'Darwin' ... no wonder I don't know what my name is," Blair groused good-naturedly as Jim laid out the bandages.

"Sorry, Blair, I didn't think of that," Jim confessed ruefully.

"It's okay, man. I sorta like all the names," Blair grinned. "Though I do wonder what you call me when you're pissed off."

"'SANDBURG'," Jim replied, demonstrating his best irritated growl.

"Whoa, Big Guy. Gotta remember not to piss you off, man."

"That'll be the day," Jim joked right back at him, carefully spreading antibiotic ointment on the wound before applying a fresh bandage.

"I do that a lot, huh?"

"Nah, just when you break the house rules."

"There are house rules?" Blair asked incredulously.

"Damn straight there are, and you're expected to follow them," the sentinel mock-growled at his friend as he set out the soup and sandwiches, along with a cup of Blair's favorite tea.

The meal passed pleasantly as Jim went over the house rules again, much to his companion's amusement. By the time the last of bite of sandwich was finished, though, the anthropologist was glassy-eyed and yawning, swaying slightly in his seat.

"Okay, Chief, just take your meds and you can enjoy a nice nap," Jim advised, setting out some acetaminophen and an antibiotic that had been prescribed to fight the fledgling infection Blair was developing.

Without comment the young man took the pills, washing them down with the last of his tea, then wandered out to the couch to lie down. Jim started to suggest his bedroom would be more comfortable, but in actuality he was glad to have Blair where he could see him for now. A few minutes later when Jim checked on him, Blair was sound asleep, snoring lightly.

When he finished the dishes, the detective planned to sit quietly and watch TV, since the last few nights of short sleep rations were catching up to him with a vengeance. He was halfway to the couch when he caught the distinctive scent of Simon's cigars, so he detoured to the door to open it before the captain could knock and disturb Blair's rest.

"Someday I guess I'll get used to that," Simon growled, ignoring Jim's smirk.

"I just didn't want you waking the kid up."

"How's he doing? What'd the doc say?" Simon queried, peeking over the back of the couch at the sleeping man.

"He did have a concussion, though not a very bad one. He's got several bruised ribs from being jumped last night, the beginnings of a cold or bronchitis thanks to sleeping in the cold, and, of course, he's got amnesia. Otherwise he just needs a few good meals and a lot of sleep," Jim reported, his expression relaxing into an unconscious look of fond concern as he considered his slumbering guide.

"If the concussion wasn't that bad, why the amnesia?"

"The doc thinks it's more an emotional reaction than a physical one. While they sent Blair out to X-Rays the doc and I discussed that. Remember how I commented on the smell down where he was hurt? It's a distinctive scent, and smells are the biggest triggers for memory. Now, this is just a theory, but we figure Blair broke down there, and the smell overwhelmed him, and he started remembering the last time he was in that area," Jim paused.

"David Lash," Simon commented, remembering the night Jim made all the right guesses and managed to prevent Blair from becoming Lash's fourth 'friend'.

"Exactly. Blair still has bad dreams about that, Simon. He says he doesn't, but I've heard him mumbling in his sleep. So, he was probably more than half freaked out, then he stumbled on a murder in progress. I'm guessing the killer tried to kill him, maybe even thought he did. And between the head injury, the old traumatic memories, and what he saw ..."

"... his subconscious decided it had seen enough." Simon concluded.

"Right. The doctor thinks Blair will remember again, in time. When he feels safe enough. And I plan to make sure he feels safe enough," Jim said, his eyes haunted.

"What is it, Jim? Is there something else?"

"Oh, no ... yes ... I don't know. It's just, at the hospital, the doctor was asking him about his dreams the last few days. God, Simon, he's been dreaming of Lash, and Maya, and the switchman, and Kincaid. Things he's experienced since he met me. And yet, he seemed to equate me with safety. I can't figure it out, man. How can he feel safe around me when he keeps getting in so much danger because of what I do, what I am?" Jim sighed.

"Maybe it's one of those sentinel/guide things you two are always talking about," Simon suggested with a grin. "Look, I told the homicide boys that they had to wait until tomorrow to talk to the kid. Take the rest of today off, keep an eye on him, get some rest. Tomorrow you come in, we go over the case again, see if Blair is remembering anything. Okay?"

"Yeah, sounds good, Sir. Thank you."

"You're welcome. Tell him I stopped by, and all the guys send their best wishes. I can guarantee Rhonda and the rest of the gals will fuss over him tomorrow, should do him a world of good."

"I'll tell him. See you tomorrow, Simon," he said as he showed his captain out. Alone again with his sleeping friend, Jim settled down to watch some old movies, the sound sentinel soft so as to not disturb Blair.

TSTS*TSTS

"Okay, Chief, I went out and hunted this down, killed it, cleaned it, and cooked it up. I expect you to eat all of that," Jim ordered, setting a loaded plate of spaghetti in front of his friend.

"Um ... which part of this did you hunt down?" he asked disbelievingly, looking up to catch Jim's grin. "However, if it tastes as good as it smells, I won't argue with you," Blair grinned, digging into his dinner with enthusiasm. He'd slept until early afternoon, then had just lounged on the sofa watching TV with Jim and sipping countless cups of hot tea.

"You aren't going to argue anyway, Junior. The doc said to eat, and I plan to enforce it," Jim told him. Normally he'd have to fight Blair to get him to follow the regime a doctor set out, but this time there was no argument. And the sentinel felt no shame at all in taking advantage of his guide's confused mental state if it meant he'd get well faster.

"Yes Sir," Blair shot back with a comically exaggerated expression of fear.

"You know, Chief, you keep that up and you'll end up pulling endless KP duty."

"Oooh, and the threats begin," he quavered, holding up 'trembling' hands.

Jim chuckled indulgently, and then attacked his dinner with vigor; setting the example he wanted his friend to follow. The meal was mostly quiet as both men paid full attention to Jim's special spaghetti, the recipe for which he wouldn't even share with Blair.

"Let me clear the table and clean up, please?" Blair requested when they had both cleaned their plates.

Jim considered the request, then nodded. "Okay, Chief, guess I can let you get that ambitious. I'll find us a movie or something to watch, since there's no Jags game on tonight."

"Sounds good, it shouldn't take me long."

The sound of Blair doing the dishes and wiping down the kitchen was strangely comforting to Jim as he surfed the channels in search of a decent movie.

"Hey, Chief, how about 'Tango and Cash'?" he asked.

"Um. Okay," came the doubtful reply. "It's not like I have any idea if I like it or not."

"Aw, hell, Blair, I'm sorry. It's a pretty good movie, I think you'll like it fine."

"Sounds good to me. You want a beer or something, while I'm here?"

"Yeah, a beer would be good, please. But none for you, Buddy. Won't mix with the antibiotics."

"That's fine, I'd rather have tea anyway," Blair said, starting across the room with his tea in one hand and Jim's beer in another.

Jim registered the sound of a high-powered rifle at the precise instant one of the loft's glass doors blew inward, and the beer bottle in Blair's left hand shattered.

"Blair, get down!" Jim shouted, launching himself over the couch and knocking the smaller man down amongst the glass fragments and beer. A split second later he heard the whine of a bullet passing overhead to imbed in the far wall. Jim urged Blair to crawl to the end of the couch, where he would be more protected, as he turned his attention out where the window used to be, and across the expanse of open space to the tall building opposite. He saw a shadowy figure disappear through a door that accessed the building, but it was too dark to make out any details.

He stood quickly and crossed to the phone, dialing 911. "This is Detective James Ellison, there's been a shooting at 852 Prospect, the gunman was on a building opposite. Send a unit to both locations, and notify Captain Simon Banks, Major Crime Unit, of the incident."

As he hung up the phone he became aware of a soft whimpering sound, which he traced to his terrified roommate who was still crouched at the end of the couch, his arms wrapped around his knees, blood from a cut on his hand dripping onto the floor.

"Oh, God, Blair, are you okay? Let me take a look at you," he said, trying to get Blair to uncurl so he could check for injuries. "It's okay, it's all over now. Come on, I need to see if you're hurt."

He could hear the anthropologist's frantic heartbeat, and smell the blood from the hand wound, but he found no other sign of injury, although it was obvious Blair was going into shock. Pulling an afghan off the back of the couch, he wrapped the smaller man in its warm folds and pulled him close, wrapping strong arms around the quivering bundle and murmuring soft assurances.

They were still huddled on the floor when Simon Banks arrived a short time later with Joel Taggart puffing up behind him.

"The call caught us just as we were getting ready to leave," Simon explained to Jim's unasked question. "Is the kid hurt?"

"Just a cut on his hand, which has already stopped bleeding. He's just a bit shocky, which is pretty damned understandable since he was just walking across the room when the shooting happened."

"Any idea why this attack?"

Jim's expression told Simon that he did indeed have some ideas, but wasn't about to discuss them in front of Blair.

"Hey, Blair, why don't you let me go bandage your hand, okay?" Joel said gently, hunkering down to look at the grad student. "Let Jim have a chance to clean up the glass before anyone else gets cut."

Blair considered Joel for a moment, then at Jim's urging stood and went with the big bomb squad captain. Jim watched them walk away with the muscles in his jaw so clenched Simon could have sworn he heard the teeth cracking under the pressure.

"Whoever it was, they were aiming for him," Jim said with quiet intensity. "My God, Simon, the bullet broke a beer bottle he had in his hand. I saw the bastard on the roof over there, but it was too dark to distinguish any details. The bastard was fucking right there! If he were a better shot, Blair'd be dead. It has to be whoever it was who killed Drummond. I want to go over and check out that building now, and tomorrow morning I want to review everything ... EVERYTHING ... Homicide has on this case. No one takes pot shots at my friend in our own home."

"Okay, Jim, okay. But we do this by the book," Simon said, looking up as two uniformed cops entered the loft. Soon the place was crawling with detectives and policemen, all asking questions and gathering evidence.

Blair gave his statement, then retired to his room with Joel, who seemed to have assigned himself as the younger man's personal bodyguard while Jim was busy investigating the other building. The smaller man sat on his bed, knees tucked under his chin, while Joel regaled him with stories from his days as a semi-pro football player until his audience of one finally begin to relax and calm down.

By then the activity in the loft had wound down, and one lone uniformed cop stood guard at the door until Jim and Simon returned and released him from duty.

"Hey, Chief, how you doing?" Jim asked, poking his head in the small room.

"Okay. Though I think Joel's making up half these stories he's been telling me. Did you find out who shot at us?" he asked as he stood up and followed Joel out into the loft's main room.

"No, just some spent shells. Come on and sit down on the couch and I'll put on some more water for tea," Jim suggested, turning to the kitchen. "Joel, Simon, can I get you something?"

"I wouldn't say no to some tea myself," Joel replied, while Simon requested coffee. The two captains were checking over the shattered glass door while Jim rattled around in the kitchen. Jim had brought in a couple of tarps and some wood from his storage room, so Simon and Joel put that to good use, rigging a temporary cover for the missing glass.

"I'll call and have that fixed tomorrow," Jim muttered, handing Blair his cup of tea. "How you doing?"

"I'm fine, Jim. Sorry I lost it there," the young man replied, blushing faintly.

"Nothing to apologize for, Chief. You weren't the only one scared. If I'd had any idea something like this could have happened, I would never have brought you here."

Blair smiled a little, then dropped his gaze to his cup of tea, blowing on it gently before sipping its golden warmth.

The other three men joined him in the living room, and soon a lively discussion about the Jags' current season was sparked, the masculine voices drowning out the soft snapping noise of the tarp as it held the cold Cascade night air at bay.

TSTS*TSTS

"Well, whoever the killer is, he's a lousy shot," Jim muttered as he pored over the reports again.

"What makes you say that?" Simon wondered.

"This report. They found a bullet in the door Blair apparently was trying to open, near the murder scene. Looks like the killer shot at him from about six feet away, and still managed to miss. And last night? You know he had to have a scope on that gun, and still he missed Blair. Twice. Hell, Drummond was shot at point blank range, or the killer probably would have missed him, too."

"That's a fascinating bit of information, but not enough to find, let alone convict, anyone. Plenty of bad shots around," the captain noted drily. "By the way, how's the kid doing this morning?"

"Pretty good, actually. And thanks for assigning Joel to watch him. I know Blair likes him, and Joel made him feel safe last night, which is amazing under the circumstances."

"Hey, Joel volunteered. Just another new resident of the ... what did you call it? ... the 'Sandburg Zone'."

Jim chuckled at that. "Oh, yeah. Only I'm not sure they can be called residents. More like inmates," he decided, startling a laugh out of Simon.

They continued to review the data that had been collected on the case, looking for any clue the Homicide detectives might have missed. It wasn't a reflection on the abilities of the other officers, but a proven fact that a fresh perspective often found things overlooked by the officers who had been on the case from the first.

Jim picked up the file containing financial records for the chain of video stores the victim owned, and thumbed through them curiously. "Looks like he wasn't making a killing with these stores, was he?" he commented, noticing the financial statements all showed a loss for the year.

"Well, he's making a profit somewhere, what with the big house and new car, and new wife. Though it's probably the old wife who's costing the most," Simon noted.

"He's a corporation, but one of his shareholders is a corporation, too. Let me log on the internet and check this out," Jim said, turning to his computer. "There's a note from the accountant they had review the records that indicates it was possible that Drummond was using the video stores as a front for an illegal activity, and the second corporation was being used to launder the money."

"What are you checking?"

"Blair taught me this one. I'm on the Secretary of State's site, looking for the corporate officer listings. Here it is. Son of a bitch," Jim muttered angrily. "I'd sure like to see his file."

Simon looked over his shoulder, then picked up his phone, barking orders rapidly. A short time later a file was sitting on Jim's desk.

"Look at this. That's the lowest you can score and still pass," Simon noted, tapping his finger on the page.

"I've got some intriguing questions for Detective Leonard Kirk. How about you, Sir?" Jim asked with a gleam in his blue eyes.

"Oh, yeah. I can think of a few." Banks called down to Homicide, requesting the pleasure of Leonard Kirk's presence. His expression darkened noticeably as he listened to the officer on the other end until he hung up sharply. He pushed another button, then spoke rapidly. "Dispatch all available units to 852 Prospect, apartment 307. Possible assault in progress."

Then he stood and without another word hurried toward the elevators, Jim on his heels.

TSTS*TSTS

"Come on, kid, you're killing me here," Joel moaned, taking another bite of the omelet Blair had made for him. "What's your secret? You guys make the best damned omelets I've ever had!"

"It's Jim's secret, and he told me not to tell you no matter what," Blair smiled, taking a bite of his own breakfast. After the traumatic events of the previous evening, he would have sworn he'd never get any sleep. But he dozed right off, and slept dreamlessly through the night, much to his surprise.

"You remembered your secret omelet recipe?" Joel asked incredulously.

"Nah, Jim told me this morning before you got here. I wanted to make breakfast for you since you were stuck staying here with me, and Jim told me you liked these omelets the best," Blair explained.

"Best omelets I've ever had," Joel repeated with a grin.

Breakfast passed quickly, and after cleaning up the two men retired to the couches to watch some television. Settling on a nature show, Blair was quiet for a time, seemingly lost in thought, until he turned to Joel with a puzzled frown.

"Joel, am I a cop?"

"What? No, man, you're a student, an anthropologist," Joel informed him.

"Oh. Then why do I hang around with cops? How did Jim and I become friends? I don't understand. I mean, I didn't think I was a cop, because last night I was scared to death. But, I got the feeling I worked with you guys," Blair explained hesitantly.

"Well, you do work with us, sort of. With Jim anyway. You're doing your dissertation on closed societies, and you're studying the police department. I'm not real sure how you hooked up with Jim, I think he was assigned to you by the chief or something. But, you've been real good for him, he's been happier since you've been around. I don't think he'd ever admit it, but he needed to have a partner."

"So, I'm his partner, but not a cop. No wonder I'm so confused."

"Still not remembering, huh?" Joel made a sympathetic noise.

"Not a lot. But, it's weird, some things do seem familiar, so maybe I'm getting better. I hope so, 'cause I don't like this not knowing things. And I get the feeling I should know something you guys want to know, you know?"

Joel laughed heartily at that as Blair grinned. "Was that supposed to make any sense, Blair? Or are you just trying to pull my leg?"

"It made sense when I thought it, but I don't think I said it right ..." he trailed off as they heard a knock at the door.

"I'll get it, sit tight," Joel said, moving to the entrance. He opened it with the chain still on and peeked outside, relaxing when he recognized the caller.

"I thought Jim was going to put off having you guys question him for a while," he commented as he let the Homicide detective in.

"We just wanted to have our own interview for the file, even if he doesn't remember anything," Detective Leonard Kirk said as he entered the loft and looked at the young police observer.

In Blair Sandburg's mind the sight of the Homicide detective was the catalyst to break through his amnesia, releasing the trapped memories in a nearly paralyzing flood. And riding the crest of that flood was the memory of Detective Kirk firing his gun at him in the dim recess of the doorway of an abandoned building.

"Oh, my God, it was you," he gasped out, leaping to his feet in sudden fear.

"Blair?" Joel asked as Kirk whirled, and in a fluid movement shot the big captain. The impact of the bullet knocked Joel back against the wall, where he collapsed into a heap.

The killer turned to find his next victim had fled to the only other door in the apartment, leading to the fire escape and freedom. Moving with deadly speed and grace, the larger man grabbed a handful of long curls before the anthropologist could make good his escape. He pulled the struggling Blair back inside and wrapped an arm around him to drag him back into the main room of the apartment.

Kirk paused in the room, thinking, ignoring the grad student's frenetic attempts to free himself. Irritated, he suddenly struck a sharp blow to Blair's head, stunning the smaller man, who slumped in his grip.

"Okay, got it figured out here. Let me see this hand," he said, taking Blair's right hand and wrapping it around the gun, then letting the weapon drop to the floor. "Poor little fella, was all confused, and mistook Taggart there for a bad guy. Shot him dead, then, in a fit of remorse threw himself from the balcony. Such a tragic loss of life, eh?" he said, snickering cruelly. "Good thing I thought to bring that extra gun, huh?" he chuckled. Blair was regaining his wits, but even so was no match for the well-built detective, who easily manhandled him over to the door leading to the balcony.

"Glad I didn't break both of these last night," he noted as he opened it. "Would have been inconvenient to say the least."

Blair suddenly increased his struggles, almost breaking Kirk's hold on him, letting out a yell that the detective quickly muffled with a beefy hand.

"Give it up, kid. No one's gonna hear you, and no one's gonna care. You should have just died in the street, saved us all a lot of hassle."

They were almost to the edge of the balcony when Jim and Simon burst through the door, guns drawn.

"Let him go, Kirk!" Jim called out, advancing with deadly grace. "It's over."

Leonard Kirk looked from the advancing sentinel to the street below, where the sirens heralding the arrival of additional police could be heard. A reckless gleam came to his eyes as he drew Blair more upright to provide more shielding from the advancing detective. Desperately Kirk pulled his service revolver and jammed it into Blair's back viciously.

"Go ahead, hero. Try it, and you'll be blinded by his guts being blown into your face. Got nothing to lose here, man."

Jim looked at his guide being held with such force, then at the man who dared to threaten him, and the feral side of the sentinel came to the fore. He began to lower his firearm, holding up his left hand in a placating manner, sensing the killer's sudden release of tension. That was what he was waiting for. He moved his gun up in a flash, firing without hesitation, the bullet hitting squarely in the man's forehead. He was dead before he hit the surface of the deck, the gun he'd been holding clattering harmlessly to the ground.

Jim reached out to his best friend, drawing him away from the body and back into the loft before the younger man could react.

"Blair, are you okay?"

"Yeah, I ... I think so. Oh, God, Joel!" Blair stepped away from Jim and moved toward the fallen captain, falling to his knees beside a uniformed officer who was giving first aid.

"It's a shoulder wound. Painful, but probably not deadly. The paramedics have been called," the officer told the upset police observer.

"Thank God, I thought he'd been killed," Blair all but sobbed, reaction finally starting to hit.

"Come on, Chief, and sit down over here, let these guys all do their work," Jim urged, ushering him solicitously to a couch, with Simon following them.

"He ... the detective ... he shot someone in an alley. I saw him, he chased me, and I think he shot me, too. I'm sorry, Jim, that I didn't get the pizza," Sandburg babbled shakily.

"It's okay, Blair, we managed fine. And I think getting shot in the head and having amnesia will do for an acceptable excuse. This time at least," Jim added with a grin.

"You remember what happened now, huh?" Simon asked.

"Yeah, as soon as I saw him," Blair waved a hand in the direction of the balcony. "I remembered what happened. It's so weird, man. I remember the car breaking down, and walking, and that guy shooting someone, and running, and pain ... then ... it's all kinda foggy, you know?" He shook his head in confusion. "Maybe it'll be clearer later, but, I gotta tell you, I'm kinda confused."

"Nothing much new there, Junior," Jim quipped, before turning serious.

"Welcome home, Chief, it's good to have you back."

TSTS*TSTS

"I just can't believe that a detective killed a man in cold blood over a bad business deal," Blair exclaimed as he and Jim left the station. The mop-up of the Drummond Case was finally finished, the case thankfully closed, and the last casualty, Captain Joel Taggart, was already back on limited duty.

"Well, it involved millions of dollars, and those kinds of figures can lead men to desperate measures," Jim replied.

"So can those kinds," the younger man grinned, shifting his eyes to a generously-endowed young woman whose figure defied nature, to say nothing of gravity.

"Oh, yeah," the sentinel grinned, enjoying the view. "Oh, yeah."

"Whoa, Jim, no zoning now. I'd hate to have to explain how you went down because you were over- ambitious in ogling a lady," the anthropologist teased.

"I was not ogling, Chief. I was observing. That's what detectives do, we observe."

"Do you always drool when you observe?" Blair asked innocently, then ducked away from Jim's swat at his head.

"Show a little respect, Junior. Well, we have an afternoon free, anything you need to do?" Jim asked good-naturedly.

"Would you mind if we went to the mission where Dr. McFairlane works? I'd like to see if I can find Aristotle." In the week and a half since Detective Leonard Kirk had been killed, Blair had gradually remembered his 'lost weekend' as he called it, but had been too busy between the university and the police department to seek out the man who had helped him so much.

"Sounds good to me, Chief. I'd like to meet him, thank him for all he did," Jim agreed, pulling out into the street from the police garage.

"He's really interesting, Jim. And I did some research a few years ago about the types of professions that can cause the practitioner to withdraw from normal societal interactions and seek isolation, and he's the first person I've spoken to at length who has actually done that ..." the anthropologist was off and running, regaling Jim with information and theories, nearly bouncing on the seat in his enthusiasm. The sentinel listened indulgently, smiling at his friend's zest for the subject. This was what he had missed; this full-bodied passion for life and learning. It had been so disconcerting when Blair first returned, seeing him so hesitant and timid, a mere shadow of the man he knew.

There had been times when he and Blair were still very new to each other that Jim had wanted to just make the kid sit down and shut up for a while. But having seen a subdued Blair, he was in the mood to enjoy the 'normal' version, so he let him ramble as he pleased.

They found a parking space near the mission and went inside, the sentinel automatically dialing down his sense of smell which was being overwhelmed with the odors inside the big building. Decay, sweat, sickness, fear, and death could be smelled in the very walls, which had borne witness to such human events for decades. Blair led the way to the back, where they found the redheaded doctor giving a small packet of medication to a rail-thin teenage girl.

"Take only two at a time, and try to rest. Drink as much water as possible. Come and see me again tomorrow if you're still feeling this bad, okay?"

The girl nodded hesitantly, then slunk away, the medicine still clutched in one fleshless hand.

"Well, well, it's Blair, right?" Dr. McFairlane said with a smile when he saw the two waiting men.

"Yeah, that's me," the young man grinned, shaking the doctor's hand firmly.

"Something tells me you got back your memory."

"Yeah, thanks. Some of them weren't so great, but I have them back," the anthropologist noted. "Anyway, I wanted to thank you for what you did for me."

"It wasn't all that much, but if you really want to thank me, come down sometime and help out. They are always looking for a few more hands."

"I'll do that," Blair agreed. "Have you seen Aristotle? I lost track of him the last night I was on the street. I wanted to see if I could do something for him, you know? What is it?" he asked worriedly, seeing the doctor's expression.

"I'm sorry, Blair. Aristotle came in last Friday, very sick. I wanted him to go to the hospital, and it's an indication of how bad he was feeling that he agreed. I drove him there, but ..." the young doctor sighed sadly. "He had a severe heart condition for some time, and had always refused any treatment for it. By the time he agreed to help, it was too late. He died an hour later."

Jim put out a steadying hand as his friend reeled with the news. "He ... he died? His heart? But, he never said ... he seemed fine ... dammit." Blair swiped at his eyes, disappointment, sorrow and anger rendering him nearly incapable of speech.

"He wouldn't tell anyone, that was his way. Blair, for what it's worth, he went the way he wanted to, and it was at least quick in the end. He mentioned you, said he suspected you'd found your way home, and was glad for that. Helping you made him feel good, made him happy in a way."

"He probably saved my life," Blair muttered.

"Then repay him by being happy in your life, that's all you can do."

Blair looked away, fighting for control, when he gaze fell on something in a dim corner.

"Is that his backpack?"

"Yeah, he brought it in the last time, told me to keep it and do what I wanted with the contents," he told them as he picked up the dusty pack. The physician brought it to his makeshift examination table and upended it, spilling out tattered articles of clothing and one other item.

"Looks like that's all there was," the doctor muttered, checking the pockets and other compartments.

"Just some old clothing," Blair said sadly, lifting each item and looking at it curiously. "And this. Wonder who she is?" he asked, turning the photo over to reveal the blank backside.

"I don't know. He never mentioned any family, none at all. And I asked him about that when I realized his heart condition was so bad. He said there was no one."

"This photo is well worn, it must have been someone to him. Daughter? Sister?" Blair wondered, studying the old photo that showed a young girl, maybe six years old, in an old-fashioned setting.

"We'll never know. We don't even know what his real name was. His ID gave his name as 'A. Dickerson', so he was buried under that name. He made his own arrangements in the last hour, giving the instructions to a nurse. A local church has a small fund to pay for burial of indigent folks, so that's who paid for it. It's a sad thing, but there was no other way to go."

"Wha ... what are you going to do with his stuff here?"

"I'll put the clothing in the poor box, someone can use them I'm sure, same with the backpack. The photo ... I can't imagine anyone needs that," he said tactfully, not wanting to just come out and say it would be thrown away.

"Can I have it?" the anthropologist asked.

"Sure. I think Aristotle would have liked that."

"Come on, Chief. We should be getting home," Jim spoke up at last. "Thanks again, Doc, for taking care of him."

"My pleasure. It's good to see a happy ending," the redhead replied, giving Jim a sympathetic look over Blair's bent head.

"I'll see you," Blair said softly, turning toward the exit, still looking at the small photo.

Once in the car he remained silent, an occasional sniff the only sound besides the muted purr of the engine.

"He ... Aristotle ... was so cool. He said he was an ex-trucker, but the way he talked? He was well-educated, man. Either formally or self-taught, but definitely educated." Blair wiped at his eyes again. "I wish you'd gotten a chance to meet him," he said sadly.

"I wish I had, too. If only to thank him for watching out for you," Jim countered gently.

"I guess you think I'm nuts, wanting the photo, huh?" Blair ventured at last.

"No, Chief, I don't think that's nuts."

"I just couldn't let him throw it away. I mean, it looks like this meant a lot to Aristotle, and to just throw it away, well, it would be like throwing HIM away, somehow. Like negating the value of his life, the things ... person ... he cared for," the younger man explained anxiously. "This is like all he had left."

"I understand, Chief." Jim's hand was warm on his friend's neck as he offered comfort. "I understand."

"Thanks, Jim." He visibly pulled himself together.

"Let's go home."

TSTS*TSTS

 ** _EPILOGUE:_**

"Hey, Chief, looks like another killer Saturday today. What're you planning to do?" Jim asked over his first cup of coffee as his fully-dressed roommate tied his shoes.

"I'm heading over to the mission. Doc said they're gonna try to patch the roof today, and I thought I'd give them a hand. Unless you need me for something?"

Jim considered his friend carefully. Blair had kept in contact with Dr. McFairlane, and had even spent some time helping out in the food line. It seemed to be giving the grad student a sense of achievement, and more importantly a sense of peace, volunteering his time, and Jim had to admit it was a nice memorial to the man who had helped Blair in his time of need.

"Jim?" Blair prompted the sentinel when he was silent too long.

"Sorry, Chief, just lost in thought. If you don't mind waiting ten minutes, I'll join you."

"Really? Great, man. We can use all the help we can get."

"Junior, I've seen your attempts at carpentry. I know you need the help," the detective grinned, evading Blair's swat and hurrying up the stairs.

He returned a few minutes later dressed in comfortable jeans and a sweatshirt. "What do you say we stop and get some breakfast first?"

"I guess we can spare the time, wouldn't want you fainting from hunger, now would we?"

"Keep it up Darwin, and I might just accidentally nail you to the roof," Jim threatened.

"As if I'm gonna be on the roof. I'm strictly ground crew, man. I don't do heights," Blair declared, holding up both hands in a warding-off gesture.

"Chief, why would you volunteer to help fix the roof if you're afraid of heights?"

"It's the thought that counts?"

"And just how much thought did you give this, Chief?"

"Enough to get you to help out," the younger man grinned, eluding the blow aimed at his backside as they left the building at 852 Prospect and headed out to enjoy a Saturday spent in friendship and giving.

The End.

Author's notes: Many thanks to Dagmar Buse who beta read this story. Since I'm a hard-headed sort, I didn't always take her advice, so any remaining errors are mine alone.


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